


May I have this dance?

by FantasyChilisVerse



Category: Original - Fandom
Genre: Holiday Exchange, Multi, Other, duels and tension because that's how we do in this house, sort-of-betaed but we still die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyChilisVerse/pseuds/FantasyChilisVerse
Summary: Parsifal and Aakarshan have a duel of words, weapons, and ideas.
Relationships: Prince Aakarshan/Lord Parisifal





	1. Take stance

**Author's Note:**

> For the holiday exchange in the year of the natural 20s! Enjoy the ultimate crackship.

“Prince Aakarshan.”

The addressed looked up from the book he had been strolling with, pulled back from whatever worlds existed on paper to the world where Lord Parsifal stood immaculate before him. The sound of the book closing echoed off the marble hallways. “Lord Parsifal,” he greeted with a polite bow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Parsifal was quite certain that the look on their face indicated there was no pleasure to be had in the interaction. The prince, however, seemed determined to ignore this, remaining perfectly neutral. 

They had been dancing like this for a few weeks now. Aakarshan would be polite, kind, and attentive. Parsifal would be polite, quiet and watchful. Inevitably their passivity would brush and rupture, resulting in the careful waltzes of words in public, and calm but far more spirited conversations behind closed doors. No monarch should be this open with a guest, especially from a mistrusted country. Parsifal can only guess as to why the prince allows such - such _ insolence _ from a guest. But allow it he does.

“Prince Aakarshan,” they repeat. “Prince Derendera has already spoken to you about the bugs, yes?”

“Of course,” he replied patiently. _ Indulgently _, a corner of Parsifal’s mind whispered, and it only served to make them slightly more irritated. 

“Did he also speak with you about what occurred last night?”

“That there was someone in your room before, yes. He has spoken about it.”

“What is to be done about it?”

“My guards have conducted examination of the room and are doing what they can with what they found. Admittedly it is not much to go on, but I have my hopes.”

Parsifal grit their teeth. It was already enough just being born in Ivernus. But to be dogged at every step by misfortunes, even here, in a place praised for its genteel society and hard-earned security and safety… 

“It is not enough.”

This bit of the dance is new. Even their more spirited conversations have been a give and take. But the frustration of all previous visits, the dismissiveness of the palace staff and Derendera’s fear to go to sleep has chaffed Parsifal’s careful mask of neutrality at last. 

Aakarshan draws back just a fraction at the demand, the _ accusation _, and moves toward them with measured footsteps. When he stops, he is perhaps only a few inches from Parsifal. Intimidation? Searching? Perhaps he was thinking of how short he could cut their visit without being rude. 

...Expectation?

Ah. He was holding his arm out.

“Please. Let us speak somewhere more private.”

Parsifal takes the arm with a curt nod, words rushing through their head. There was no use in apologizing. Why carry the name of a scandalous country if you don’t live up to the expectation of it? People would expect something of this from them no matter how true it may actually be. It was only a matter of time before Parsifal or Derendera broke, and better to be them than their cousin, upon whom so many hopes and eyes rested. 

The prince keeps silent, his posture and the slight pinch of the brow indicating he was deep in thought. He did not seem angry at least. They walked on, past the bronzed images and carefully constructed stained glass windows until hallways melted into open windows and fluttering curtains, and finally to an archway with two large iron doors laid open. 

“This is a dueling ground,” Aakarshan said, answering Parsifal’s unspoken question of their location. “This is one of the few places I will not be disturbed unless there is something urgent. There are no ears here. No courtier cares to extend the invitation to spar first.”

“Too forward?”

“And usually bellies their temper. Though I’ve been challenged by my wiser elders before,” he says with a small laugh. He does not seem to mind it, the challenges. Perhaps that means there have been many victories for the prince here. Or many lessons that needed to be learned. 

He lays his book on a nearby table, flicks a rune into place to tell the guards the area is in use, and turns back to Parsifal. “I understand your concerns. You and I do not always agree, and even in agreement we do not seem to always see eye to eye exactly. But I am grateful for your honesty. Most people would prefer to layer their concerns between pretty words here. Through no fault of their own, you understand. Court has a way of strangling your voice. But I still appreciate it.”

They should have seen that coming. Of course he would be pleased. 

“Still. It was rude of me. I am your guest.”

“Your cousin is also facing a problem that we don’t know everything about, and is a ruling body. That does give cause for more than a little concern. I therefore understand your urgency. I do not show it, but I share it.”

Another part of their dances. The give and take becoming the take and give. Agreement to disagree. Hot heads (if either of them actually possessed one) finding calmer means. Truces and allowances. More than once, Parsifal finds themselves wishing for something like this back home. The knife in the dark never came when concerning Aakarshan. It’s almost terrifying to know such honesty is so accessible in a country where survival is everything. 

“Perhaps we may come up with a more feasible solution than simply setting a few guards loose to investigate. If you don’t mind, I’d like to think on my feet.”

Parsifal watches with something between indignation and scandal as Aakarshan slowly sheds his outer robe and the trinkets on his hands, showing no sign of stopping as graceful purple and brilliant white continues to flutter away. Their words barely escape the stutter following them. “Pardon, your highness?”

“I told you once that I can dance but prefer not to. I am afraid I wasn’t entirely honest.” Silk shifts away, the nape of his neck flashing between his long dark hair before copper shoulders melted into view. “I usually find my solutions while in motion. Pacing. Reading. And…” He gestures to the dueling circle burned into the sand. “I prefer dueling as my dance.”

They hum, pretending it is in thought and not because the very firm, very unignorable shoulders of royalty are so brazenly displayed for their eyes. “So, the Peaceful Prince is not always so peaceful.”

To their relief and supreme delight, Aakarshan’s smile only widens as turns back around. It was spring here still, but the sky is clear from the ocean breeze, leaving the sun to drench every bare, breathtaking inch of the prince’s chest. Parsifal is reminded of the many, _ many _ misconceptions that existed about the physique of magic users. Most people thought of them as waifs. But it took equal measures physical and mental power to truly hone one’s skill. Aakarshan had certainly not neglected the physical half.

He wrapped an arcane ribbon around one hand, then the other, bone and tendon rippling around his knuckles, not one motion wasted. “I did say I was a pacifist, not a bystander.” He slowly walked the length of the dueling circle. “Peace before fighting.” Each step measured. One, two. One, two. “Action through defense.” They follow, circling opposite him. “Demonstration before admonition.” Eyes holding eyes. Shoulders drawn. Chins lifted. Breath quickened. Blood thrumming. “Be kind, but be ready. Because sometimes kindness is not adequate prevention.”

It has been weeks since their first meeting. Information on this Peaceful Prince, this Arcane Ruler, this Prince Aakarshan, has been plucked from source and story, observation and rumor, all crystallizing down to this moment when Parsifal realizes Aakarshan in his entirety. 

By now, Parsifal is aware the prince is no fool with his crown half-fallen off his head. Fool_ ish _ sometimes. But not stupid. Certainly not blind. A kind man. A gentle man. But one who stands in the sunlight of this dueling circle with the faint shimmer of scales down his arms and neck, his eyes focused, the grace of his stance belying a power not restricted, but carefully confined. 

_ Evil runs when a good man goes to war _ they once heard a soldier mutter. And Parsifal wonders what it must have been like to watch Aakarshan hone himself to a point on the metal of adversity, to see him snarl and find out if any of those teeth were sharp. 

Parsifal realizes they haven’t given verbal answer to the prince’s question. So they bow, undo the sash of their thin coat and shed it like flowers do frost when the sun touches them. They take up a pair of arcane ribbons, take their place on the opposite end of the circle, and do not bother to hide the smile that follows.

Aakarshan smiles back, and Parsifal delights in its sharpness.   
  



	2. Diplomacy

“Magic or weapons?” 

“Both,” Parsifal answers primly, turning to a nearby weapon rack to pluck up what appeals most at the moment.

“Both?”

“I am trained to protect.”

Aakarshan makes an approving noise, turning to carefully select a Jakartan sword. Parsifal’s hands find a pair of long daggers, testing their weight before nodding. Both begin to pace the length of the circle. One two. One two. One two. One two.

“How many wins?”

“Best of three.”

“Rules?”

“Do not draw blood. If weapons drop, use your magic.”

“Use any means to survive in the ring?”

“Short of death and dismemberment, yes.”

“Hm. Sounds brutal.”

“It is only as undignified as you make it. And we are here to discuss a problem as well.”

“Oh, I plan to remain dignified and find a solution. But I also plan to win.”

Aakarshan smiles that almost secret smile of his, and Parsifal narrows their eyes playfully. The prince’s face wears a friendly challenge, but his eyes are focused. Parsifal had only seen this in spirited council debates, and even then just indirectly. To be the sole spectator of it…

“May I have this dance, Lord Parsifal?”

They grin. “You may.”

Both take stance, the air quiet save for the flapping of banners in the breeze, the scratch of sand spilling over steps toward the palace. 

In a flash, they both charge. 

This will be a warm up, most likely. A test of each other’s range of movement, their quickness, the way one parries and sweeps. Aakarshan doesn’t seem like the type to be suddenly vicious. He will calculate every possible angle, perhaps do the bulk of talking this round. For now they remain focused on gauging each other’s strength. Parsifal takes in the range of motion, the way muscles tense and arms sweep. There is a power behind Aakarshan's grace that speaks of more than days spent indoors under the carefully curated schedule of royalty. 

"Your skill is impressive, Your Highness. Where did you learn?”

"Tutors first." * _ Clang clang clang _ !* "Not every assassin in the night will come with magic, and even then, not all of it is something I can stop. I needed to be able to protect myself by any means necessary. They often told me to ‘think on my feet’.”

“Ah.”  _ Clang clang! _ A sweep and a duck. “Is that all?”

A short chuckle. “No. There were small skirmishes too.”

“Are not your soldiers responsible for protecting you?”

“Yes. But it is also a ruler’s job to protect their citizens. My father led first, and I second. When he grew ill, I led in his place until he recovered. Later, even after he had recovered.”

“Were the skirmishes violent?”

“Sometimes. Most times I could talk out a solution.”

“And they listened? Even though they were angry?”

“More that I listened to them.” A grunt of exertion, another duck, c _ lang! _ “People enjoy living here but I won’t suggest everyone is satisfied. Every country has its failings.”

“What was the failing at the time?”

“The failing,”  _ parry, lunge, parry, _ “was that the outermost circle of the kingdom was being ignored. Roads were treacherous. Trade was not efficient. People who had traveled and grown through families for generations on the border were being pillaged and not enough was being done.”

“Why?”

“Even now I do not understand it. My father was a just man. Or so I thought. Perhaps he did not think it worth his trouble. Or perhaps the correspondences alerting us of the problem were ‘misplaced’.”

“On such a large scale? Unlikely. Though I’ve heard of bigger conspiracies.”

“In Ivernus?”

“Everywhere. But Ivernus has its own flare for the practice.”

“Such as?”

Parsifal merely smiled. “Now now, Prince Aakarshan. Isn’t it rude to pry?”

It was almost precious how taken aback he looked. “And here I’m making conversation of the failings of my own country.”

“It’s nothing I couldn’t have found out if I wished it. It is all open history, yes?”

“...Yes.” A sudden lunge and their weapons caught, both leaning their weight against each other. “Is this how you disarm the people who speak with you?”

“Not entirely. Usually they don’t know they’re being had until I have them entirely.”

“Is that what you mean to do, Lord Parsifal? To have me in my entirety with all my secrets bared?”

Parsifal smirked. “Are you offering?”

Aakarshan smirked back, and they forced each other apart. 

It hadn’t taken long for either of them to work up a sweat. The sun was directly overhead and both were out of breath. Parsifal had never known the word ‘glistening’ to carry tangible weight until now, seeing the prince wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, hair beginning to hang in strings. 

“We should focus on the problem at hand,” the prince said, playful facade switching to something a little more serious. 

Parsifal nodded, forcing their eyes to remain on his even as sweat trickled down a rather firm bicep. “Let us recapitulate the facts. I searched the room in its entirety. I found three bugs, all of them listening devices. Someone was overheard threatening someone else to carry on the whole thing. Someone’s sister will be implicated if nothing is stopped. There is also the sleeping draught we found in our tea the one time.”

“Mhm.” 

“For the runes, the listening rune under the tea tea table was the strongest one, built into the carving underneath.”

“I have since had the table replaced and examined.”

“By someone you can trust?”

“By someone I know who won’t lie.”

Parsifal’s brow arched, skeptical, but they forged on. Both began to walk the dueling circle again in the same preparatory waltz as before. “It was an intricate creation. Someone of talent had to have created it.”

“Unfortunate that this does not narrow down the list of suspects.” Aakarshan is generous and performs the first move, allowing Parsifal to observe. * _ Clang! _ * “Ignoring the biased love I have for my people, there are many who could have created it. A courtier. A student.”

“So many people can specialize-”  _ Parry, twirl, clang! _ “-in such a thing?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And poisons? Sleeping draughts? Draughts of confusion?”

“The same. We have many alchemists who work alongside us to ensure every bit of ground is covered in terraforming and health.”

“How dark is the dark side of your court?”

“Not as dark as it could be, but...much darker than I’d like it to be.”

“And active?”

“More active than they think I know.”

“You dislike deceit so much, even if it is necessary?”

“Is that so wrong?”

Their weapons met again, this time with both of them looking each other in the eye very hard. Parsifal searched for an answer Aakarshan would want to hear that they could also give honestly, and found very few. 

“No. But it is foolishness not to allow people to work simply because you disagree. They do it because they love you.”

“They do it because they think it is necessary. Just as soldiers met the sieges of the suffering all those years ago because they thought it was necessary. Do you know what won that civil war in the end?”

“What?”

“ _ Negotiation _ .”

Metal slipped, slid out of their hand, and they found themselves forced to a knee with the tip of a Jakartan blade gleaming beneath their chin. 

“In the end, all that bloodshed could have been avoided had we but listened. Not through shadows in the dark, not through infiltration and poison and violation of privacy. I sat down to council with a battered group of individuals and listened for days. And when they were done pouring their hearts out, only then did the land begin to learn unity.” 

There was a pregnant pause in the circle. Even the wind had died down, everything around them holding back as if to listen. Parsifal couldn’t decide on a glare or simply a look that searched. For all the good it did anyway; Aakarshan was unreadable in that instance.

He at least did them the courtesy of removing the blade without taunting.

“Round two. Choose your weapon.”   



	3. Shadows

Parsifal retrieved their daggers and put them back on the weapon rack. Suddenly things had shifted away from the problem at hand, further away from any current issue. ‘Defensive’ was not an adequate way of describing how they felt. They weren’t even entirely sure why Aakarshan was angry. Or if he was angry at all. What preconceived and current notions had the prince formed of them? Which ones needed to break? Which ones needed to be enforced? And why was it so important to prove anything to begin with?

Parsifal clenched their hand tight enough to feel the arcane ribbon digging into their palm, then let go, and turned back around. 

Aakarshan had selected a spear, but hovered by the weapon rack when he saw Parsifal’s hands empty. 

“Magic this time?”

“Yes. I want to see how yours compares.”

He carefully replaced the spear and removed a hairband from his wrist, reaching up to tie his hair. Parsifal pointedly ignored the ripple of muscle across his ribs. He had not earned their gaze. 

“The ribbons around our palms will dilute our magic just enough to be safe. No spells to send the opponent or yourself to another dimension will work as well. No spells distorting or clouding the mind will work either. Will that suffice?”

They nodded, taking a more fluid stance. Aakarshan did the same, still looking much like a fighter instead of the chessboard piece posture prevalent in polite duels meant for show. Every muscle tensed in them to charge first, but they waited, watched. Aakarshan waited too. It felt as though ages passed before Aakarshan finally smiled wryly.

“You still wait for your opponent to make the first move even if it tortures you?”

“It does not torture me to calculate the first mistake.”

A huff of laughter - in derision, in a suspicion being answered, in disbelief? - fell from his lips, and he charged. Parsifal knew what was going to happen before it even happened. The prince’s power as a sorcerer lay in his draconic lineage, and most dragons preferred fire. The firebolt that shot from his hands was easily dodged, and they fire a series of guiding bolts at his chest. * _ Right for the heart _ * old words echoed in the back of their head.  _ Quick and efficient. Derendera’s life is everything _ . Something to show they were still ready even if the bolts were absorbed by his mage’s armor. 

It was satisfying still to see him slide back a few feet.

“...Your magic is strong.”

“I’m sure yours would be too if it hit me.”

There was the tiniest twitch of his eyebrow and Parsifal barely restrained a smirk.

“Magic is not often allowed in Ivernus,” they continued. “It is looked down on as forbidden. A curio, if you will. But that does not stop all of us.” 

Carefully measured steps. One two three, pause. One two three, pause. Rond de jambe, hands held out toward opponent.  _ Never let them catch you, Parsifal. Never let them stop you… _   
  
“It is an irony I’ve seen repeated outside of my country countless times. The light mocks the shadow, yet where does the shadow come from but the very light cast against the stonework of the ages. And so the shadow is left to work around it, providing what it can, what is must. Protection from the heat. Rest from toil. Calm and a place to hide for people who know no rest. No one realizes how tirelessly it works for what it loves most.”

Fire back, but much brighter, much hotter. Even with the arcane ribbons, the air blasts back their hair, and Aakarshan is forced to bear the brunt of it as his protection cracks and dispels under the pressure. By the time he has recovered, a spectral weapon gleams bright at Parsifal’s side. 

_ A cleric? _ Aakarshan’s eyes ask.

_ Much more, _ Parsifal’s eyes answer silently back. Again they both circle. Aakarshan on his toes and heels. Parsifal en pointe, the sand burning hot through their shoes against their toes.

“Do you think that honesty and straightforward questioning will save my cousin in your court, Prince Aakarshan? Do you think that just because your court is welcoming and that you are kind, people will follow suit? Will the criminal we seek be moved by their conscience merely because you ask?”

Another volley, this time acid, shoots toward Parsifal. They spin out in chaîné, feeling the hiss of part of it catch their clothing. The spectral blade races for Aakarshan. His first instinct to hold up a shield overrides the logic of the blade being able to pass through things, and he flinches as barely misses him. 

Parsifal’s mind drifts back to the first dance that was their first meeting. The orchestra of social graces readied its bows and breath, the floor open for conversation between Aakarshan, Derendera and them. Parsifal had catalogued the first notes of it carefully. The way the Prince was dressed (simple and soft), the way his eyes looked (not simple, very sad, still soft), his movements (careful,  _ soft _ ), and had been...disappointed, by how quickly it took them to gather the information. Perhaps this Prince Aakarshan had hidden depths. But he was too open, too easy to look into immediately. From just a few minutes, they could already see the honesty, the unguarded manners. Who was he trying to appeal to? What for? He could gain nothing by being like this as a monarch. Even with the best intentions he would only hurt himself, would he not? The way Prince Aakarshan’s big brown eyes tilt softly down to Derendera had reminded them of ridiculous books filled with doe-eyed protagonists swooning in flowerbeds.

_ Pathetic _ was a word that slipped between the cracks of their thoughts as they’d nodded and responded to pieces of the conversation. And the word slips out of their mouth now, hissed, revolted. 

“It would be  _ pathetic _ to assume that by simply working hard, such an enemy may be brought to justice.”

With a wide spin, they duck with their hands to the ground, and the arena begins to shake. It will surely alarm, but they do not care. Aakarshan maintains his balance but not his concentration. He comes to a full stop with a spell humming in his palms, a spectral blade pointed at his jugular. Parsifal comes to rest in first position, not even bothering to hide their cold fury any longer. Many countries had risen in fallen in the eyes of history with rulers gentle like this man. The Prince is so kind. Almost too kind for their taste, really. It makes them want to grab his jaw with one hand and snarl out the question of  _ why _ , even though they already know the answer. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough to know the Prince has suffered in some way and turned out so decidedly opposite from them. 

“If that is the approach you choose, then you have shown me all I need to know. I will not entrust the life of my cousin to a man who is not willing to do everything in his power to protect without discretion. I have worked too long, too painfully to allow carelessness to end his life!”

Aakarshan opens his mouth and Parsifal turns away, dismissing the spectral weapon and whatever words were coming next with a careless wave of the hand.

“Third round. Tiebreaker.”


	4. Resolve

Third duels, third meetings, third _anything_ was when things always got serious. Their third meeting had been the same. They had met to discuss the bugs and poisons before. Aakarshan’s ears had been open, but his heart had clearly not been in it. Perhaps he could not bear to hear of his court being so sullied despite his not being surprised whatsoever. Once upon a time, Parsifal would have sympathized. Would have pressed a comforting palm to his arm, perhaps reassured him they could achieve results by working together. But something cold and bitter had coiled in their throat on seeing the look on his face. Something that made them hold back just that much, twisting their mouth and words, cutting the meeting into equal parts calm and argument. And now they are here, bruised, sweating, angry, and no closer to the original goal of the duel than before. Parsifal wasn’t even sure this was an argument they could walk away from as equals. If Aakarshan had any sense he would elevate himself back to his rank of peerage and dismiss them from the palace as politely and quickly as was possible. 

Their eyes closed with a sigh. So much for diplomacy…

The weapon rack behind them clattered, and they absently selected their own weapon. Two swords this time. At least finesse in the physical would not fail them. 

Somehow they find it in them to return to the circle and meet Aakarshan’s eyes. As seems to be the pattern, Aakarshan moves first, though not to fight. His eyes tilt away. 

“...You care very much for your cousin’s safety.”

“I do,” they answer, some of the bite gone, but all the bitterness remaining. 

“I fear your opinion of me is opposite of what I hoped for.”

“Why should that bother you? You are the prince of your kingdom. How you choose to run it is not for me to decide.”

“Yes. But you are also in my court, and you do not feel safe.”

_ I have not felt safe since I was a child, _ they want to say, but cut the string of that little thought. “No court has been truly accepting of us. It is not a new notion to me.”

“ _ Parsifal _ .”

The tone causes part of their vision to focus again. Aloof determination cuts back to clarity, and Aakarshan is looking as honest as he ever did. And much as they hated to admit it, Aakarshan had, on several occasions, shown he was no fool in emotion. He knew the weaknesses of his face, knew how to hide it under charm and friendliness. Aakarshan would be devastating if he tried to be. He would break hearts and bones as easily as anything, but seemed determined to break his own first. It’d be too easy to call such depth of emotion ‘pathetic’, too contrary and hypocritical when their own heart gnaws on itself with the knowledge of how lonely they and Derendera truly are in the world. You lose enough and you are changed forever. 

“...Please understand something about this court,” he began. “About me. I prefer diplomacy. I love peace. I love the calm of the land. But I know what it means to get there. And I did not learn my skill set simply out of formality. I knew what it would mean to ascend, to hold any measure of power in my hand. Sometimes we must do things we don’t like, can barely stand, or find repulsive. One day I hope to achieve a court that does not depend on shadows. Working in the shadow is thankless work. It is a toil with no end. Surely you know this.”

And they did know. More than Aakarshan ever would, and for that brief moment they  _ hated  _ him for it. He took their silence as a sign to continue.

“I am not searching for your approval,” he went on, not tracing the circle, but walking across it. One, two. One, two. One, two. He finally stopped just a foot away. “But I am not pledging my effort selfishly either. I know there is a life in danger in my home, and that you and your cousin have dealt with so much just to set foot in this country. I would not be so flippant as to suggest my method is the end-be-all to protect your own relation.”

The indignation was back, and rose higher into something close to feverish, flustered panic as the ruler of an entire country, the prince whose generosity had challenge Parsifal for the past few weeks, the man who had made Derendera laugh from the belly for the first time in years, took a knee like a knight pledging fealty before death. He lifted his eyes upward almost fervently, and Parsifal took a startled step back, shock naked on their face. 

“I swear that I will do what I can and  _ must _ to ensure your cousin’s survival and safety. Yours too, if it is not redundant to offer such a thing to a protector. Please accept this pledge.”

Their face grew warm, stayed warm. “Get up. Someone will  _ see you _ !”

“Then answer.”

“Answer  _ what _ ?” they hissed, eyes darting over every available space someone might look in. “Your pledges are yours alone to-to pledge!”

“It is important you know how serious I am,” he replied, though not without the tiniest smile. “Please, Lord Parsifal. Accept this pledge, humble as it is, disbelieving as you are.”

“I-I…” A huff. “...You’re not going to get up until I accept, are you?”

“I’ll get up if you answer directly at least.”

They crossed their arms, giving him an even look. “...Very well. I accept. Know that I have my doubts. But I will at least accept your attempt since it is more than most other countries will do for us.”

No man should ever have the right to beam like that. Parsifal actively ignores the continued presence of heat on their face. Aakarshan keeps grinning like a brazen thief and takes up his weapon again. 

“Well? Are you going to stand there smiling or actually-”

_ Clang! _

“...Hmph. How very like you,” Parsifal says before they can think about what they say. Before they can think about how they can track how he behaves and how its with a fondness that they map that predictability. 

“And how very like you to rise to the occasion,” Aakarshan replies before backing away slowly. “Lord Parsifal. May I have this last dance?”

Nothing short of divine intervention could have stopped that smile that crawled across Parsifal’s face before they even knew what to do with it.  _ How dare you know me. How dare you make me care.  _

Rage, as some say, is a hell of an anesthetic. But so is the feral joy that comes with battle. Parsifal gives up on thinking since Aakarshan clearly has. They meet again and again, like two people in a ballroom who know nothing save the movement of the other, the footfalls and heartbeats, eyes and arms locked together. 

Aakarshan moves quicker and with more fluidity than he’s shown in any ballroom. No longer constrained by what has been determined by tradition and performance, he is free to move beyond expectation, weaving his magic and body in ways that Parsifal could not have comprehended until watching. And he does Parsifal the courtesy of expecting the same from them. When one falters, the other charges. When magic fails, weapons are grabbed. When these are melted, burnt, bent, fists are used. When these fail, magic again, on and on until the circle smells of ozone and sky.

The essence of divine magic and the ancient power of bloodlines meet again and again, enough to shock the breath out of Parsifal’s body and coalesce it into something brighter. The mortal layers between them begin peeling away to reveal the essence underneath until there are only two stars spinning around each other on a thread-thin axis of light. Opposite poles to one field. Opposite directions to one compass. Two unshakeable forces ready to shake the very world in a common cause if given the chance. 

Aakarshan’s back hits the dirt and everything rushes back to the present. Eyes much sharper than they should be on a human man, pupils pinpricked,  _ slitted _ , full of furious gratification between the strands of hair sticking to his face. 

Parsifal is almost drunk with the sight of it, slurred disappointment that someone so elegant should fall, giddy that someone so powerful should be the first to bend, and dares to be cocky just once. “Do you yield?” they asked, dragging the tip of their blade just under the prince’s stubble.

Belatedly, they realize the prince has feet, and both are sweeping at their ankles. Suddenly their back has hit the dust, and Aakarshan is standing with the sun behind his head, casting a broad shadow over them. “No,” he says breathlessly. “I do not.”   
  
_ You don’t either, _ goes unsaid.

Muscles coil to spring to action, every fiber pulled back and ready to be fired into the fight renewed when the large iron doors yawn open, introducing dissonance to the choreography. 

“Prince Aakarshan!”

A messenger of some sort bringing news of an urgent matter. Parsifal pays the barest hint of attention, too distracted by the energy left unspent, the disruption leaving only dissatisfaction in their mouth.

The prince bows graciously, purposefully oblivious to the Look the messenger has when moving their eyes between the very shirtless prince and courtier-protector. Parsifal also casts their eyes away when the prince begins shrugging his robes back on, the act of it almost as startling and private as when said robes first came off. 

“I hope there is no trouble?”

“Not much. A heated disagreement has led to an early request for a council gathering. It will be a long night. But perhaps if you are not asleep, or if you have time tomorrow…”

Brown eyes have softened again. But there is still flint enough left in them to promise further excitement. More chances to prove the prince wrong, prove him right, prove themselves to whatever they choose.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

With one last bow, Aakarshan hurries off, leaving Parsifal in the middle of the circle like they’re standing on a porch watching someone treasured wish them goodnight and walk away. 

When Parsifal finally reaches the safety of privacy, back against the door, sand digging into their skin, they realize that their first instinct when under the prince’s shadow was not to run away. 

But to run towards.

“You’re really in it now, Parsifal…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CRISIS


End file.
